"Go to hell!" Finch spat, blood trickling from his lip. He tried to knee Carcel, but Carcel blocked it with his thigh.
Carcel pulled back his fist and struck Finch across the jaw. It was a brutal, efficient blow. Finch’s head snapped back. His eyes rolled up.
"Wrong answer," Carcel whispered.
From the shadows, two more hired thugs ran out, clubs in hand. They had been hiding in the back of the carriage.
"Get him!" one shouted.
Carcel released the dazed Finch, letting him slide down the carriage door into the mud. He turned to face the new threats.
He rolled his shoulders. His knuckles were bruised. His coat was splashed with mud. He felt alive. It has been long he felt this excited to work with his fist.
The first thug swung the club. Carcel ducked, sweeping the man’s legs out from under him. As the man fell, Carcel didn’t wait. He turned to the second attacker.
But a shot rang out.
Bang.
The second thug froze. He looked down. A bullet had struck the dirt right between his feet.
Mr. Vance stepped out of the fog, holding a smoking pistol. He looked as calm as if he were filing paperwork. The second thug rushed to throw the club at him but Vance was faster. He fired another second shot, hitting the thug’s thigh.
"I wouldn’t do that if I were you," Vance advised dryly. " Now hands up or the next bullet might go through your skull."
The thug groaned, dropping his club and raising his hands, surrendering.
Carcel looked at the n on the ground. He breathed heavily, the cold air filling his lungs. He looked down at his hands. They were dirty. There was blood on his knuckles—not his own.
For years, he had left the war life behind. He had signed papers and attended balls, acting like the polite Duke. But tonight, stripping away the title, he was just a man protecting his family.
"Tie them up," Carcel ordered Vance. "Leave them for the constables. Anonymous tip."
He paused as if rembering sothing. " Have the huge one write a letter to Priscilla telling her the job is done."
"Yes, Your Grace," Vance said, holstering his gun and pulling out a coil of rope.
Carcel turned to the carriage. He ripped the door open.
Gladys cringed back into the shadows, her eyes wide with terror. When she saw Carcel, she didn’t recognize him at first. His hair was ssy, and he looked dangerous.
"Gladys," Carcel said. His voice changed instantly. It beca soft, gentle.
He climbed into the carriage and knelt on the floor. He didn’t care about the mud on his knees.
"It is ," he said. "It is Carcel. You are safe."
He reached into his boot and pulled out a small knife. Gladys flinched.
"Shh," Carcel soothed. "Just for the ropes."
He cut the bonds around her wrists. Then, very carefully, he cut the gag and pulled it away.
Gladys took a huge, gasping breath. She began to sob imdiately.
"Your Grace," she wept. "They... they took . They wanted to know about Ines. They wanted to sign a paper... to give so kind of testimony."
"I know," Carcel said. He took off his heavy riding coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. It engulfed her small fra. "I know. But they failed."
He helped her stand up. Her legs were shaky, so he scooped her up into his arms. He carried her out of the carriage, stepping over the unconscious body of Mr. Finch.
Vance had finished with the short note from Finch and tying up them up together. He looked at Gladys with concern.
"Is she unhard?" Vance asked.
"Shaken," Carcel said. "But alive."
He walked over to his horse. He couldn’t put her on a horse; she was too weak to ride.
"Vance," Carcel said. "Take the carriage."
Vance blinked. "The kidnapper’s carriage?"
"Yes," Carcel said. "Drive it. We are not going back to her ho. It is not safe there. Priscilla knows where she lives."
"Where are we going?" Gladys asked, her teeth chattering.
Carcel looked down at her. "You are going to the country, Gladys. To my estate in Kent. My aunt is there. She is formidable. No one gets past her gate without an army."
"But... Ines..." Gladys whimpered. "The wedding..."
"Ines needs to know you are safe," Carcel said firmly. "If you stay here, Priscilla will try again. And next ti, we might be too late."
He went back to the carriage and placed her gently into the carriage, settling her on the seat.
"You will stay in Kent until all this is over, till the ti of the wedding," Carcel promised her. "I’ll have Vance bring your mother later. You will eat good food, you will rest, and you will read all the books in the library. When Priscilla is dealt with, I will send for you personally."
Gladys looked at him. She saw the blood on his hand. She saw the fierce determination in his eyes.
"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for coming for ."
"You are Ines’s friend," Carcel said simply. "That makes you my friend."
He closed the door.
He turned to Vance, who was climbing into the driver’s seat.
"Take the back roads," Carcel instructed. "Stop for nothing. Get her to Kent by morning."
"And you, sir?" Vance asked, picking up the reins. "You are without a coat. If you ride back like this you will catch a terrible cold."
Carcel looked down at his shirtsleeves. The cold wind bit at his skin, but he didn’t feel it. He felt the heat of the victory.
"I will be fine. I will be going now," Carcel said. He walked to his stallion and mounted it in one smooth motion. "I have a wedding to prepare for. And I have to tell my future wife that her enemies are running out of soldiers."
Vance nodded and cracked the whip. The carriage lurched forward, carrying Gladys away to safety.
Carcel watched them go until the taillights disappeared into the fog. Then, he looked down at Mr. Finch, who had just written a short letter, groaning in the mud, tied up with the rest.
Carcel steered his horse carefully around the man. He didn’t look back. He turned his horse toward London.
The physical fight was over. Now, the psychological war would end. She had the decoy. He had saved the hostage. Priscilla had nothing left but her own arrogance.
And that would be her downfall.
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